2p talia
by Sola Haze
Summary: What if the original Hetalia anime had the 2p characters? This is a retelling of the Hetalia anime, 2p!ified. (WARNING: This is 2p, so it may include blood, gore, cannibalism, swearing, etc. I'll likely avoid racial slurs and sex, but no promises.) Rating may change. Flames will be used to toast marshmallows.
1. Chapter 1: In The Field

_**Sometime during WWI**_

 _Dear diary,_

 _We just crossed over the lines into enemy territory. I don't know where I am, but I know I left Austria and Hungary somewhere behind me. Turkey will be there soon to back them up. I've gone ahead on my boss' demand. Usually, my boss' demands are on the bottom of my to-do list, but this is War. It's not really my choice anymore. There's something strange waiting for me here. They say I'm meant to be fighting a descendant of the greatest men ever to live. The man who conquered the entire Mediterranean. The man who gained all of the world's wealth. His name was Roman Empire._

 _He had everything. Fame fortune, kingdoms as far as the eye could see. He was a warrior. He had legions, loyal soldiers at his beck and call. He conquered, pillaged, and made a name that lasted well beyond his life. He truly had it all. But the man who had gained everything... one day disappeared. Of course, if this new opponent is truly the descendant of Rome, he must be worthy of fighting. After all, I hate fighting weak opponents. Hopefully, this isn't just another scheisser job to get me out of the way for a while. Well, we shall see..._

Germany closed his field diary, slipping it into his jacket. He stood in a small clearing, the grass crunching quietly under his feet. He looked around, allowing his stiff frame to relax into a semi-slouch. His boss wasn't there, after all. A little break never hurt anyone. He carefully tugged at the collar of his uniform. It was so tight. On his own time, he preferred just wearing the undershirt, and maybe drape a jacket around his shoulders if he was out in public.

His eyes scanned the area for what had to be the fifth time. He had been walking on foot for maybe an hour, but he hadn't seen any people at all, let alone a mighty warrior. Then again, he hadn't been looking very hard. He frowned down at the stick clutched in his hand. It was about a foot and a half and divided at the top. This was Herr Stick, his field companion. It wasn't uncommon for traveling soldiers to have an inanimate object they would talk to when they were alone. Isolation would throw any soldier off their game, but just talking to anything made it easier to manage.

"We crossed that border with no issue, didn't we, Herr Stick?" He said to it. "Austria's probably showing them a card trick. And Hungary's too weak to fight anyone anyway." He chuckled. "And then there's Turkey. I bet he's tearing up the battlefield right now. If he wasn't there, I'd have soldiers on my tail right now."

His previous frown deepened, his hands wandering to his stomach, covered up by _too many_ layers of fabric. "I didn't feed you, did I?" He muttered before slinging his pack off his shoulder and poking around inside. He pulled out a piece of _Hartkeks_. He unwrapped it and raised it to his little Sticky friend's upper branches, and tapped it against the bark a few times. The stick didn't bite. "Too nervous to eat?" Germany asked. "Me too."

He wrapped the _Keks_ up again and put it back before tucking Herr Stick away in the pack and slinging it on his back again. It was time to be serious. "I can't let my guard down this time." He muttered to himself. "If I really do find the descendant of Rome, I should be expecting a fight." He pushed a tree branch out of the way before stepping into a small, grassy clearing. His mouth fell open, a small, shocked noise leaving his throat. In the center of the clearing sat a lone box of oranges. _Italian_ oranges.

* * *

 _ **Sometime during the Fifth Century**_

 _Once upon a time, in a House called the Roman Empire, the newborn country of Italy lived with various other countries. Italy's early life was wonderful. Despite being such a small nation, he was surrounded by his big brothers France, Spain, and a small child known as the Holy Roman Empire._

 _But one day, Italy's grandfather, Rome, took him away from his friends and home to live with him..._

Italy huffed at the sky, his red eyes lazily returning to the paper in his hands as Grandpa Rome sang an old Roman tune, _"Pulchra Mea Terra"_ quietly in the background. Italy had been living with Rome for a few years now, and he was tiring of it. He loved Grandpa Rome, but he longed to go back home and see his friends again. He would much rather be there than here. Grandpa Rome always told him, "when you grow up, you will be a strong Empire just like me", but every attempt to teach Italy to fight had ended in disaster. Italy just wasn't all that strong as a child, but he vowed he would get stronger.

Rome sighed as his song ended, the last notes carried away by the soft Mediterranean breeze. Rome was a handsome man, to say the least, with dark brown hair and fierce red eyes. He always wore his golden battle armor and a long, draping red cape. A smile graced Rome's lips as he looked down at his grandson. He looked over the roughly scribbled art on the page, and his eyes grew wide.

"Italy, that is astonishing!" Rome exclaimed. Italy gasped, quickly covering up the page and throwing the handsome man a sharp glare.

Rome chuckled, rubbing Italy's hair through the big, loose hat he wore. "No need to be shy," he said. "It looks wonderful!"

Italy blinked. "Really?" He asked, hesitantly holding up his drawing. "You think so?"

Rome looked over the drawing fondly. It was a chaotic piece drawn in vivid reds and crisp golds and deep, ominous blacks. He recognized it as one of the battles he'd told Italy about. The sky was dark, and the Roman Army was charging across the battlefield, their golden armor gleaming with victory, the bodies of defeated enemies strewn on the ground, lying in puddles of their own blood.

Rome grinned, one calloused hand squeezing Italy's shoulder lightly. "It's wonderful!"

Italy felt pride well up in his chest. He may not have been that great a fighter, but he always had his pictures. Drawing always made him feel so... what was the word... _Renaissance_.

 _I can't wait to go home, so I can shove my talents down France's throat._ That thought made him smile...

 _Unfortunately, when Italy returned home, all his brothers had become mean bullies. However, this only made Italy angry and prone to violent retaliation. This was especially bad for a boy called the Holy Roman Empire, a kind, gentle boy with seemingly no spine. He was always taking the blame for France's mean pranks, which only made Italy angrier._

Italy's feet pounded against the stone streets as he chased the pathetic excuse of an Empire, who was running as fast as he could while huge tears rolled down his pale cheeks.

Behind him, Italy pursued relentlessly, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Get back here, you coward!"

Holy Rome's form shook with fear as he ran faster. "I'm sorry!"

"Shut up! You are not Holy, not really Roman, and definitely not an Empire! Get back here!"

Now, Holy Rome, being the somewhat-lazy child he was, eventually tired out and tripped. What happened after that? Well, that's a story for another time.

* * *

 **Vocab**

 **Scheisser - Germany once said in the anime "probably another 'scheisser job'". Scheisse is German for "sh*t", so you can probably guess what a "scheisser job" is.**

 **Hartkeks - What the Germans called "Hardtack". It literally translates to "hard biscuit". (I didn't know whether to capitalize it. In English, "hardtack" wouldn't be capital, but Germans capitalize all nouns.**

 **I hate century rules. So, the moment the year went from 1999 to 2000, we officially entered the 21st century, but it sounds more like it should be the 20th century. So, "Third century" just means the 400s.**

 **Pulchra mea terra - (Latin) "My beautiful land". Word order might be wrong. I don't speak Latin.**

 **I've seen headcanons saying 2p!Italy can't draw. I didn't like that, because what's the first thing you think of when you think of Italy (besides pasta), ART! So, I just made Italy's drawings depict death and violence. Seems legit.**

 **I once heard Crash Course History describe the Holy Roman Empire as "Not Holy, not Roman, and not an Empire".**

 **Stay tuned for chapter two!**


	2. Chapter 2: The Box-Of-Oranges Fairy

**Maybe I should mention now: Italy knew Holy Rome was just covering for France. He was angry because he's always been taught "Empires are supposed to be strong, fearless. They aren't supposed to take the fall for anyone else, nor are they supposed to run from their enemies." After all, that's how Roman Empire was in battle.**

 **And yes, in the original webcomic, Italy was hiding in a box of Italian Oranges, not Tomatoes.**

 **Anyway, now reviews!**

 **-Reviews from Archive of our Own-**

 **Fan_Fan_Fan_to_Pan_Pan_Pan: This seems really cool! I'm interested in this, keep it up!**

 **Me: Thank you so much!**

* * *

 _ **Sometime during WWI**_

Looking back at it now, Germany didn't know what he was thinking. It was just a box. Sure, his rations were bland, and he always craved something fresher than bread, water, and canned meat, but why would anyone leave a crate of oranges out in a forest? Maybe his stomach got the better of him because soon he was yanking at the lid of the crate, but it was sealed tight. Suddenly, the box yelped. He jumped away, releasing a cry of surprise.

The box went silent again as Germany stared at it with wide eyes. Had that box just... moved? There was somebody inside?! He grabbed the top of the box, feeling adrenaline flooding strength through his arms. "Hey, is there anyone in there?!"

The box jerked again, a voice emanating from within. "Back off you bastard! The Box-of-Oranges Fairy is busy!"

Germany paused for a second, his eyes glued to the crate. It was definitely talking... but "Box-of-Oranges Fairy"? He pressed a hand to his head, muttering quietly, "I must be hallucinating. Did I get _British_ rations by mistake?"

The box jerked again, shouting in a thick Italian accent. "Ve, I told you to go away!"

Okay, he was definitely not hallucinating. He dug his fingers into the wooden grooves of the crate, yanking upwards with all he had. Whoever was in there must have been delirious from starvation to be spouting such nonsense! All the while, the box continued to shake and swear at him.

"This is your last warning-!"

The lid suddenly came off, throwing Germany back a few feet. He threw the lid aside, then leaned over to look into the crate. Down at the bottom was a small boy, or at least he looked that way from how he was curled up, his hands over his head as if to protect him. He was maybe seventeen or eighteen, with tan skin and auburn hair, a strange curl of hair jutting out from the left side of his head. He was wearing some kind of brown uniform, but Germany couldn't see it in full detail at the moment. Suddenly, the teen's head snapped up, and Germany almost stepped back at the intensity of those crimson eyes. The boy's face twisted into a dark parody of a smile, his thin lips curling without mirth.

"Now you've made the Box-of-Oranges Fairy angry."

Before he could react, the teen jumped up at him swinging a knife. Germany gasped out loud, barely moving fast enough to dodge the first strike. He felt a flash of pain in his left cheek as the Italian's knife grazed it with a shallow cut.

The little devil moved like the wind, slashing, jabbing, even biting whenever possible. Germany knew he couldn't dodge the Italian's overwhelming offense, so he took the easy way out: he rammed the blunt end of his riffle into the teen's face. Instantly, he dropped to the ground, going motionless.

Germany breathed heavily, looking over his fallen enemy, his hand still clutched around the knife, even in unconsciousness. Germany hastily pried it from his grasp, looking it over quickly before stashing it in his pack. The blade had been dripping blood; _his_ blood. His fingers strayed towards the cut on his cheek, he winced slightly at the touch. He shook his head; that could have gone a lot worse. He made quick work of searching the Italian over before slinging him over his shoulder and heading back towards his base. If this really _was_ the descendant of the Great Rome, he had a lot more trouble on his hands than he thought.

* * *

 _ **Sometime during the Eleventh Century**_

Italy peeked carefully around the corner to where Holy Rome was helping chop some firewood for Mr. Austria. The small Italian took in his every movement, devouring the sight eagerly. Holy Rome had shed his cloak and hat, revealing the clothes always hidden underneath: a simple loose white shirt beneath a black vest, an ascot tied elegantly around his neck. The classy attire did him much good when it came to the girls around the village.

It frustrated him sometimes. Holy Rome was never awkward around women. He was openly a flirt and many swooned over him. Every time Italy saw Holy Rome with a girl, he'd get this strange burning feeling in his chest. Sometimes he wondered if Holy Rome even liked boys. Well, it wasn't like Italy looked much like a boy anyway. He just... he just wanted Holy Rome to notice him!

"What are you doing, Italy?"

Italy whipped around, a scowl already etched into his face. He'd recognize that snobby French accent anywhere. "What do you want, France?"

France didn't seem put off by Italy's aggression. Instead, his normally sullen purple eyes moved from Italy to Holy Rome with a new spark of life. "Are you spying on Holy Rome?"

Italy gaped, crossing his arms and sputtering a long string of insults. "Of course not, you stupid frog!"

France gasped. "Oh my gosh, you are! How scandalous!" He singsonged cheerfully, relishing in the discomfort it caused Italy. "Little Chibitalia has a boyfriend!"

"Don't call me that," Italy growled, but France wasn't listening. Suddenly, Italy lashed out at him, grabbing the Frenchman by the throat and slamming him against the wall. "You just don't know when to quit, do you, France?"

France coughed, wheezing pathetically. "Please, Italy... I-I'll give you some of my land, j-just let me g-go!"

Italy smirked, holding up a small blade he kept hidden in his apron. "Little late, France."

Holy Rome looked up from his work when a terror-filled scream suddenly rang across the courtyard. Through one of the archways, he could see Italy and someone else, someone clearly struggling. A flash of light caught something metallic. Holy Rome gaped, taking a step forward before Spain was suddenly there, shoving a cinnamon-covered pastry into his hands and guiding him away speaking quickly under his breath, "Just take the churro and don't ask questions."

 _After Rome died, Italy became an assembly of small countries. Back then, Italy had everything he could ever want: fertile land, mild weather, and a rich history of art and religion. It was a very attractive country, so naturally, the other countries became jealous._

 _However, Italy was not weak. Well, not inherently. He'd gained a warrior spirit from Rome, one his enemies feared. Although, not everyone feared Italy at first. France was the first country to go charging into Italy with the goals of claiming land. But the only thing France got was his ass kicked. After that, no one else was stupid enough to oppose Italy again._

* * *

 _ **Sometime during WWI**_

 _Dear diary,_

 _So, I dragged that Italy I captured back to base. To be honest, I just want to hand him over to someone else, but my bosses said no. No rest for the weary, I suppose._

 _I've tied him up and taken all the weapons I could find on him. Then I can hand him off to someone else._

Italy woke to a bright light in his face. He blinked a few times, trying to lift a hand to shield his eyes, only to fins he couldn't move.

"What the hell, you bastard?!" He shouted, releasing a string of Italian swear words as he struggled against the ropes.

"I have some questions for you, Italian," Germany said, trying to sound authoritative. Honestly, the Italian frightened him, even tied to a chair. He'd patched up the cut on his cheek; luckily it didn't require stitches.

"Like hell I'm gonna tell you anything." The teen spat, kicking out at Germany's shins. Germany sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn't have the patience for this.

"You are Italy, correct?" He asked, ignoring the smaller man's cursing.

"I'm not answering any of your damn questions!" That was the only response he got. " _Vaffanculo_ , you German bastard!"

Germany scowled, opening his mouth to return a sharp retort, but he was suddenly cut off by a loud growling sound. The Italian groaned quietly, leaning forward and awkwardly pulling his knees up to his chest. It took Germany a moment to realize the teen was hungry.

"You must be starving." He muttered, moving back to grab something from the cupboard: his lunch for the afternoon, a small container of sliced and salted potatoes. "So here's the deal." He stabbed a piece of the potato onto a fork. "You answer my questions, I give you food."

"I don't want any of your disgusting-" Another growl emitted from his stomach. Germany almost smiled; he could see the other's resolve fading.

"Fine."

Germany nodded. "First question: who are you?"

The Italian scowled at him before answering quickly. "Italy," He said, opening his mouth to accept the food. Germany put the forkful into his mouth, letting him bite it off before continuing.

"What were you doing hiding in a crate?"

"Hiding from jerk bastards like you!"

Another bite.

"Finally: Are you related to the Great Rome?"

Italy stared at him for a moment, his crimson eyes wide with surprise. "You know Grandpa Rome?"

"Answer the question."

Italy sighed. "Yes, you idiot. Of course I am." He straightened up slightly. "Now, do you think I can eat my reward with my own hands?"

Germany thought for a second, looking over the Italian. He had no weapons. What could he do? "I suppose." Germany muttered, putting down the potatoes before he began working to undo the ropes. Once they were off, Italy spent a moment rubbing his wrists as Germany straightened up. "There."

But the smile Italy flashed him wasn't grateful. It was predatory. Suddenly, the small soldier launched himself at Germany, knocking him to the ground. Germany gasped, struggling against the attacking arms, the Italian snarling at him viciously all the while. Suddenly, a burst of pain flared in his right forearm, making him cry out. The Italian had dragged his claw-like nails right through Germany's skin, leaving three long soon-to-be-scars behind that bled onto the floor.

Germany felt adrenaline pump through his system. He shoved the Italian off of him, straddling the soldier with his knees, his hands suddenly closing around the teen's neck, squeezing until his struggles ceased. Germany breathed heavily, staring down at the unconscious Italy. He brushed a gentle hand over the purple bruises forming, his lips turning down.

"What have I gotten myself into?"

* * *

 **Oh my god, Chibitalia is Yandere-chan: "Senpai will be mine; he doesn't have a choice."**

 **I did warn that this would have a little violence. I don't even want to know what happened there between Italy and France.**

 **Vocab**

 **Vaffanculo - (Italian) F*** you!**


	3. Chapter 3: Friends

**There were two flame reviews from the same person, but I decided not to respond to them. The only thing I'm gonna say is: "I can do what I want. It's my story. Everyone's opinion is different. Fight me."**

 **Also, for other reviewers, if you don't want me to show your review when I respond to it, tell me, and I'll just put my response and leave your actual review out.**

 **Fan_Fan_Fan_to_Pan_Pan_Pan: wHOO-IE MOMMA, Italy is... he's crazy! I wonder what made him like that? Anyways, great job! I'm loving this!**

 **Me: Thank you so much, I'm glad at least someone is enjoying my story. Maybe Italy's that way from spending so many years being raised by Rome.**

 **I would like everyone to know, a review that has all negative comments and mentions nothing positive is called a "flame review" and is not appreciated. Please people, show a little decency.**

* * *

 _ **Sometime during WWI**_

Germany was very cautious with his Italian charge from that day forward. Of course, after a while of solitary confinement, Italy became a little less hostile. Soon, Germany felt as if it was safe to let him walk around the house sometimes, though he never left the Italian out of his cell after dark. Italy always refused to eat Germany's food, though he still grumbled about being "starved". Germany didn't trust him enough to let him make pasta in the kitchen, though.

He'd whined about being bored for the longest time, and it was really grating on Germany's nerves. So, finally, he gave Italy something to play with: a ukulele. He figured, due to Italy's rich history of art and culture, music would likely be something he could throw himself into. And he was right. The Italian spent hours on end just playing the instrument in his cell. And not only a week later, after a long day out of his confinement, he came to Germany with the ukulele in hand and an optimistic look.

"Hey, Germany, I wrote you a song!"

"Really?" Germany looked taken aback. "Why?"

Italy shrugged. "Just wanted to express how I really feel about you."

Well, that sounded innocent enough. "Okay, let me hear it."

Italy nodded, his fingers playing across the strings, carrying a calming, cheerful tune into the air... and then he began to sing.

 _Germany, Germany,_

 _Germany is a really, really, boring place._

 _Just 'cause I'm your captive doesn't mean you can starve me,_

 _But your food sucks anyway._

 _Seriously, I'd rather drink England's poisoned tea._

 _You can't even make decent pasta,_

 _Well, that's Germany._

 _Tell me, are you even smart enough to breathe,_

 _I'd think you'd be too lazy._

 _Your patheticness makes me want to claw out your eyes,_

 _And use them in meatballs._

 _Is it normal for military commanders to drink so much beer?_

 _Though you really shouldn't leave your glass alone._

 _You'll see why soon._

He winked.

 _Even the girls from Germany are more rugged than you are._

 _Go die~!_

Germany stared for a moment, his brain trying to process the last few lyrics. He looked at the empty glass on the table not too far from them. That was when his legs gave out. Germany crumpled to the floor, limbs stiff, unable to move. He strained his eyes to look up at the Italian who had just tossed the ukulele aside, causing the sound of splintering wood to grate against his eardrums.

"What did you...do?"

Italy's expression was far too cheerful for the words he spoke. "I poisoned your beer. Don't worry. It'll just paralyze you. That just means I can do this~!" Suddenly, a hard kick landed in his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs and shooting pain through his chest. Two more kicks assaulted him before the Italian turned to the door and strode out confidently, throwing him one last wave.

"Hasta la Pasta, sucker!"

* * *

Months later, the War had ended for Germany, leaving him poor and on the worse end of living. Of course, there were always moments Germany could converse with the Allies without awkward feelings. Strangely enough, he and France had become rather close. The Frenchman seemed to have become rather depressed after the armistice, and though Germany had tried to invade him in the beginning, they had made up shortly after. Of course, Germany never wanted War. War meant work, and work was never something he liked. France had never really cared much for War either. Now, they weren't _best_ friends, but at least they didn't hate each other as much as before.

Germany was currently staring at a cuckoo clock he'd received in the mail that morning. It was from France, likely some kind of friendship offering, but there was no way the Frenchman had actually made it himself. He was far too lazy. Maybe he'd had Belgium do the work, though he doubted it. She'd always been quite argumentative.

That was the only good thing to come out of this conflict. Not only had he lost the War, all his money, and had parts of his home taken by France and Poland, but he'd also never recaptured that Italy he'd taken prisoner during the War. Actually, he'd never seen Italy since the War ended, and he never wanted to again. He was one prisoner who was more trouble than they were worth.

Not a moment after he thought those things, there was a knock on the door. Germany stood up, taking a moment to stretch his shoulders. He was still stiff from working all yesterday to pay back England. Another bout of insistent knocking prompted him to move faster, muttering under his breath. Who on earth would be coming to his house right now? Everyone hated him. He opened the door, and he was greeted by red eyes.

Germany jumped back in fright, giving Italy the chance to walk right past him without a word. It took Germany a moment to find his voice. "W-what on earth are you doing in my house?!"

Italy had walked into the kitchen and was already rifling through the fridge. "My family's poor, and I'm hungry. And guess what," he said, pulling out an apple, which he bit into without hesitation, "you have food." He said through a mouthful of apple.

Germany only gaped as Italy ransacked his fridge. "I-If you need money, you could always help me work to pay off England."

"Nah," Italy replied, shutting the fridge after putting his finds on the counter. "I'd rather just take what I want from you. Anyway, it's your fault I'm poor, you bastard." Italy was now looking through the pantry. "Your occupation bled the lands dry. And my new boss doesn't care about me at all."

Germany scowled, stepping forward to reclaim his food, but he was halted by a kitchen knife being pointed into his face, freshly pulled from the block. "Why don't you go bug France?" He grumbled.

"Big brother's being a jackass," Italy replied, putting the bread in with the fridge food. "He won't let me into his house because of _your_ occupation. He doesn't trust me because I have 'German ties'."

Germany stared, mouth fallen open as Italy tied the ends of the blanket together and threaded a stick through them to make a bindle. "But France and I are friends..." Germany said, more to himself.

Italy laughed, turning towards him. "Wow, you really are dense." He said, waving the knife in the air as he spoke. "You do realize the person forcing you to work is France, right?"

France? France was the one making Germany suffer like this? How could he? He thought they had come to an understanding.

Italy threw the bindle over his shoulder as he left the kitchen with his newly acquired food. "Well, have fun with your slave labour. I'm going now."

Germany scowled to himself, feeling a need for revenge burning in his chest. France was going to pay.

* * *

 _ **Months later**_

Germany had a new boss now, one that understood him much better than anyone ever had. He was an inspiring man who made Germany feel like he had purpose. Now, his boss had inspired him to openly seek revenge for France's deception. Now, their troops were crossing the border into the country, ready to conquer and destroy. For once, Germany's affinity for laziness had been overcome by the need for vengeance.

Germany was writing in his diary when one of his men came running into the room with a panicked look on his face. "Sir, there's terrible news!" He exclaimed, sweat of fear running down his face. "Italy has become Germany's ally! What are we supposed to do?!"

Germany's mouth fell open. That couldn't be true... right? He was about to ask the man for more information, but the soldier had gone white as a sheet. He yelped in fright and scampered out of the room like a rat running from a feline. Germany tilted his head at this display, but he felt a chill run down his spine. Then he heard a voice whisper down by his ear.

"Ciao, Germany."

The blonde Nation jumped up out of his chair, whipping around as he stumbled back, fright making his eyes go wide. Italy had appeared, as though from nowhere, and was leaning on the back of his chair, his little face cupped in one hand as if he was bored. In the other hand, he was twirling a knife absently.

"I've pledged my support to your pathetic excuse for an army," Italy said with a smile that managed to look both angelic and demonic at the same time.

It took Germany a moment to control himself. Fear had his heart beating out of control, and his throat felt tight, but he slowly processed what the Italian was saying. "Wait, why are you helping me?" He asked. This could easily be a trick or a trap. "Isn't France your brother?"

"I hate France for my own reasons," Italy said dismissively, stepping around the chair and sheathing the knife. "I'm not here for you. I just don't want you getting in my way."

Was Italy here for the same reason he was? Revenge? This development very much frightened many of the German troops, Germany could feel it. No wonder: Italian soldiers were terrifying! Italy was clearly still angry about the WWI disaster, and Germany knew that would make this relationship unstable. If they were to fight together, he would have to find some way to appease him. But for now...

Germany sighed. "Italy, can we just forget about our past issues?" It was all he could think to say. He hoped it would be enough of an apology.

Italy watched him for a second before responding. "As long as I get to take the first piece out of France, we can be friends." He held out his hand. "Deal?"

Germany paused. Friends. That was more than he had been asking for, but he supposed it wouldn't be bad. He'd never had friends before, and he wasn't quite sure what it implied, but if it was a show of good will, he would accept it. "Sure, deal." He took the hand.


	4. Chapter 4: The Tripartite Pact

**Well, looks like I got another review. To be honest, these have to be the longest reviews I've ever gotten, I just wish they were written with happy feelings. Of course, if I mention anything, it'll probably cause worse backlash, so I'm just going to skip to the story.**

 **Oh boy, 2p!Japan time. I've never written 2p!Japan before.**

* * *

 _ **September 1940**_

The party is in full swing. White-clothed tables sat surrounded by laughing people as beer and wine-filled glasses circled around on trays as waiters went about their business, serving the soldiers and the many beautiful women who had attended the celebration. _"Der fröhliche Wanderer"_ played over the speakers. Germany had thrown this party to celebrate the signing of the Tripartite Pact.

At a white table, Germany was conversing with his ally, Japan. Japan was a tall, thin man with onyx-black hair, serious red eyes, and a stiff posture that rivaled Germany's own. He was a rather attractive man, but he scowled far too often. To the party, he wore his usual military attire: the Japanese Imperial Navy uniform. The golden buttons and epaulets contrasted nicely with the black fabric. Along with it, he had worn a purple cape and white gloves. At his hip, a katana was sheathed. He rarely went anywhere without it. Germany himself was simply wearing his green SS uniform, the Iron Cross proudly on display at his neck.

"So, you call this signing the 'Tripartite Pact', yet I fail to see our third ally." Japan's voice lacked emotion entirely.

Oh, this had been the moment Germany had been dreading. He glanced over to where Italy was sitting on the other side of the room, flirting with a group of four or five women at once. He, too, was wearing his military clothing, a brown Italian Brigade uniform. He knew Italy and Japan didn't have a good past, but this alliance hadn't really been his choice. Still, if he wasn't careful, this could go far South very fast. One of the girls pressed a kiss to Italy's cheek as he poured another glass of wine.

"Yes," Germany said, clearing his throat. "I have found us a new ally."

Japan seemed to have caught the direction his gaze was turned and his eyes flicked over to Italy for a second. "It is certainly not the obviously suspicious character over there, is it?"

Germany flinched at the steel in Japan's voice. He frowned slightly, looking back at Japan as he mustered up all the courage he had. "He... he is."

 _Smack!_

Germany's head snapped to the left, his right cheek stinging from the blow dealt by the back of Japan's right hand. He rubbed the area, wincing as he met the island Nation's gaze again. "Alright," He said. "I suppose deserved that."

"What were you thinking?" Japan snapped, his words sharp. "Italy cannot be trusted."

"I know, I know, but he's strong." Germany bargained. "His army could make a great contribution to our conquering of Europe."

Japan's gaze remained level and deadly. "Italy is also lazy and temperamental."

"Can't you both just get along?" Germany finally snapped. He was tired of everyone around him disagreeing and him getting caught in the crossfire. "I don't expect you to like it, but Italy is our new ally, so treat him as such."

For a moment there was suspenseful silence, then Japan scowled at him. "You are making a mistake, Germany. But I will allow your foolish alliance to exist for now. However, when he betrays us, you will pay for the damages he causes to both of us." And with that ominous threat hanging in the air, Japan stood up and walked off, leaving Germany alone with a red mark on his cheek.

Germany sighed. "Am I the only one with a level head?"

* * *

 _ **Sometime during the Sixteenth Century**_

Italy had heard the laughter from not far off. Spain was sitting on the cliff overlooking the ocean, chuckling to himself about something. Little Italy was had been fighting with a wild dog which seems bent on taking his hat when he heard. He kicked the animal away rather roughly, then straightened out his clothes and stared at the figure on the cliff, scowling slightly. _Signore_ Spain was never this happy unless something terrible had happened to his enemies.

Italy marched up confidently. "Hey, what's wrong with you, _Fratello?_ "

Spain looked up at him with more joy in his eyes than Italy had seen in a long time. "Oh, _hola, mi hermano,_ " he said with an amused smile that made Italy's brows knit. The Spaniard looked back out at the sky, his expression content. "Let me give you some advice: don't get too attached to life as it is now."

Italy crossed his arms, even more confused than before. "Why do you say that, eh?"

Spain didn't look up but chuckled all the same. "You'll see soon enough."

And not long after, Italy understood perfectly. Ever since France had been brutally defeated after his attempted invasion, no one had dared to cross Italy... until he saw the Austrian armies marching across his fertile fields, burning things down as they went. In the end, Italy just wasn't strong enough. His land was claimed, and finally, he realized why Spain had been laughing: he'd signed a deal with Austria. Now, Southern Italy, Italy's brother, belonged to him. Not that Italy minded being rid of the twit, but it still ticked him off that he'd been outsmarted by a piano-playing aristocrat who read fortunes for a living!

At the moment, Italy was shifting uncomfortably in his new attire, a rather feminine dress, apron, and kerchief. Did Austria think he was a girl? No, he was sure the pervert got some kind of twisted joy out of making him uncomfortable. Said pervert was currently gloating about his victory.

"You thought you were invincible, didn't you?" The tall man leaned over Italy's small form with his hands on his hips, his mouth twisted into a sharp-toothed smile. Italy glared back at the towering aristocrat, refusing to dignify his question with an answer. He had hated Austria from the moment he'd laid eyes on the man. He had long, red hair tied back with a pristine blue bow, and his sharp blue eyes were magnified by the wire-framed round spectacles that sat perched atop his pointed nose. His lips were thin and his skin was ghostly. He looked as if he didn't eat nearly as often as he should. His attire was a dark red, giving off a sort of occult-vibe. Around his neck, he wore a spotless white ascot, which only added to the air of arrogance he carried everywhere he went.

Realizing Italy wasn't going to respond, Austria continued. "Here's how it's going to work. You belong to me: Austria. Your only job is to serve me like the servant you are." He leaned forward, his nose almost touching Italy's. "Do you understand?"

Jeez, did this man understand anything about personal space? He would teach Austria to call Italy a servant! Unfortunately, the childish punch he had thrown at Austria's face, just hoping to bruise that smirk or at least knock his glasses askew, had been caught and his small fist was currently being held in Austria's tight grip. The man chuckled, using the other hand to pinch Italy's cheek _hard_.

"They're so cute when they fight back," he said, amused as Italy's face twisted in disgust. "I should have you clean the stables to teach you some manners. Now," Italy stumbled as Austria released his cheek and began pulling him by his wrist towards one of the many open balconies in the white room. Austria gestured down at the land below, doing a full sweep with his arm to show off every part of his land. "This is my kingdom, and it will be your home for many years to come. You will learn its language, culture, and religion."

Italy scowled out at the beautiful houses. "This is not my home you jerk."

Austria laughed, as if the statement was silly. "Of course it's not. You won't be staying in your land. You will be staying here, serving me as my _cute little underling_." He punctuated the last three words with light tugs to the back of Italy's kerchief, which made the little Italian swat at his hands. Austria turned to march back inside, releasing Italy's hand simultaneously, causing the child to spin in a circle before dizzily plopping down on his backside.

Austria turned back around to face him. "I'll oversee all the industry and politics in your land. All you have to do is loyally obey me without question. Do you have any questions?"

Italy scowled, hauling himself to his feet. "Just one," he said. "Does your food suck as much as your fashion sense?"

Next thing he knew, Italy found himself thrown into a small, dark room, like a closet. "Perhaps a little alone time will teach you to think before you speak," Austria's voice taunted before he shut the door, and the tell-tale click of a lock told Italy he wouldn't be leaving anytime soon.

* * *

 _ **Sometime during WWII**_

Germany watched tensely as Italy and Japan both signed the Pact. Soon after, people cheered and champagne was opened. But the tension surrounding the occupants of the table was unmistakable. Shortly, the party was over and people began to clear out. Soon, the Axis would begin their new lives together as partners.

Germany could tell he was playing with fire through all this. Italy was very powerful, yes, but that likely came from his Roman roots and centuries of oppression. Japan on the other hand... well, he was quite a wonder. It was amazing how strong the Asian country had grown in such a short amount of time. Only sixty years ago, Japan had been closed off to the rest of the world. He was likely stronger than both of them combined, and Germany couldn't help but feel a little afraid of him. Despite being frightening, he was ruthless and bluntly honest. He didn't beat around the bush or spare people's feelings. He knew how to be efficient. And efficiency was the true German way. He felt as if he and Japan got on well enough. And then there was Italy...

From the moment they'd began the trip to their new base of operations, Italy had begun making small-talk, mostly by poking fun at Japan's past. Germany couldn't tell the status of the Asian man's emotions, but he had a feeling he was two inches from snapping Italy's neck. Germany stood between the two stronger nations as they walked, hoping to god Italy would just shut up before Japan got mad.

 _Why do I pick the strong allies?_ Germany asked himself. _The strong ones always have emotional issues._

He just had to hold out until the war was over. In the morning they would be converging on their first operation together. They were going to cross the ocean to try and catch Britain off guard with a sneak attack. That would certainly make everyone feel a little bit better. He just had to hold out until then. After all, the operation was so simple, how could anything go wrong?

* * *

 **Alright, now, to end this chapter, I wanna put something about reviews. If you find any grammar or spelling mistakes, I'd be happy if you told me in a review. And if you have negative criticism, that's fine, but a simple "I liked this part" or "keep up the good work" can make the review seem a lot more balanced. Now, onto the end notes.**

 **Wow, I did better with Japan than I thought I would. I'm pretty sure at all the Nazi parties during WWII the soldiers attending just wore their military uniforms rather than formal clothing.**

 **Der Fröhliche Wanderer is the name of a popular song played during Oktoberfest. Its English name is "The Happy Wanderer", and it was played in the movie "Schindler's List" at a Nazi party. The song was actually written after WWII ended, but I chose to put it in because it's the famous German "party song" more or less.**

 **So, I looked at the 2p wiki for Spain and it said four of his common personalities portrayed were tsundere, stoic, loner, and sadistic. I decided I would combine tsundere and sadistic. Basically, I looked at his episode speech and I realized, if spoken in different tone, it could sound much different. And then there's Austria. I had a lot of fun with this character. I feel like locking Italy in a closet is definitely a punishment 2p!Austria would use. Things are only going to go downhill from here for young Master Italy. Oh, by the way, a kerchief is basically a piece of fabric you wear over your hair. You probably already knew that, though.**


	5. Chapter 5: SOS

**Okay, I'm getting pretty sick of being heckled by _Anonymous_ reviewers. If you feel so strongly that my story is copyright, why don't you just report it to the moderators, eh? It would save us all a lot of time.**

 **Now, onto the chapter.**

 **Reviews**

 **(From chapter 1) Guest:** **Does your story really include blood, gore, cannibalism** **and** **swearing? DUDE! SIGN ME UP! :D**

 **Me: Haha, thank you! But it's only a possibility.**

 **Since I didn't quite like the idea of beginning in the middle of the "stranded on an island" storyline, I decided to write a little extra at the beginning and basically take out a little in the middle.**

* * *

 _ **Sometime during WWII**_

Germany coughed violently, the smoke in his lungs making his chest burn. He was dazed, and he couldn't see. It took him a moment to recall what was going on. The plane they had been flying in had crashed, he knew that much. He pressed his jacket over his mouth, though it only made him feel more smothered. He needed a way out, a latch or a handle or something to pull. His hand felt around and finally, he found something. Pushing with all he had, he pried the door open, releasing himself from the confines of the smoke-filled cockpit.

Outside was bright. Germany squinted against the sun, his balance swaying as his eyes watered from the lingering sting. He was surrounded by trees. Tall trees reaching up to the sky, but not far off, it seemed the forest ended and some other environment began. For now, he observed his location. Something on the ground was glistening. Italy's knife! He remembered now. Italy had been waving that thing around, and in a moment's distraction, Germany lost control. And not too far from the knife was a hand.

Germany ran to the pile of metal, digging his hands under the pieces and using all his strength to lift them up. It must have been a part of the plane that broke off. "Italy?" Germany shouted as he threw the metal aside. Italy laid on the ground, seemingly unconscious, but the moment Germany tried to pull him up, the Italian slapped his hands away.

"Don't touch me," he snapped.

Well, there was one part of the trio. But someone else was still missing. "Where's Japan?" Germany asked.

Germany looked around them for a moment before he heard Italy burst out in laughter. Germany turned to look at him. "What's so funny?"

Italy was pointing at something above. "I found Japan."

Germany followed his gaze up to a tree and nearly laughed himself. Up in the tree, Japan hung nearly six feet off the ground, his purple cape snagged in the thick branches. He was struggling with the fabric, trying and failing to detach it himself when he noticed his audience. He glared down at Germany as Italy's howling laughter continued to assault their ears. "Get me down from here or I promise your demise will be painful."

Germany swallowed and began to climb.

* * *

Despite Japan's inherent grace, his fall hadn't been that graceful. On impact, a fractured talus became a broken ankle. How ironic that the strongest of them all was now unable to walk. Germany helped Japan off the ground, putting the Asian man's arm over his shoulder.

"The beach," Japan whispered, looking at an expanse of sand just beyond the treeline.

Germany nodded and began slowly walking towards the beach, making sure no weight was put on Japan's left leg. He'd never seen Japan weakened like this. He knew of the Nation's pride and could assess that the man would never have accepted his assistance walking unless he was in a lot of pain.

He pulled Japan halfway to the shoreline before stopping. "Put me down," Japan breathed. Germany obliged, slowly lowering the man to the ground, helping him lay his ankle straight. Italy tailed behind silently, watching with interest. As soon as he was in a stable position, Japan looked up at him. "Italy, start looking for food." Despite his pained breathing, the order was still firm

Italy whined. "Aw, why do I have to-"

"Italy," Germany interrupted, throwing the Italian a silent look he hoped conveyed what he couldn't say out loud: 'stop arguing'.

Italy huffed. "Fine," he muttered, before walking back into the treeline.

Germany's attention went back to Japan as the man breathed in raggedly. "Get the first aid kit," he said, his voice sounding strained. "From the plane."

Two minutes later, Germany came back with a soot-covered pack. Luckily, the contents inside were clean. He placed it down next to the Imperial and grabbed a few relatively heavy rocks from near the cliffs. He lined them up around the upper part of Japan's leg, leaving the broken portion the only part movable. He made eye-contact with Japan, non-verbally asking permission, and received a quick nod. It was clear Japan wanted to get this over quickly. So, Germany took his foot gently, drawing a sharp hiss from the Asian. If he thought this hurt, he would hate the next part. Lining it into position, Germany took a breath, and snapped the bone back into place, gritting his teeth at the resulting howl from Japan's throat.

The black-haired man fell back, letting his upper body rest on the ground as he breathed heavily. Sweat rolled down his forehead, and his throat felt dry. But still, for all his pride, he managed to breath out quietly. "Thank you," he said.

Germany nodded. "Don't mention it," he said, as he began aligning a few sticks he'd picked up from the forest next to Japan's leg before wrapping it with the bandages to keep the makeshift splint in place. It would be healed up in a couple days thanks to Nation's accelerated healing process. Once Germany was finished, he began repacking the med-pack, taking a moment to look over the other supplies it contained. Germany pulled out a small metal tray, turning it over. It was probably for cooking things over a fire. That could come in handy. "I'll start making a smoke signal," he said, but as soon as he stood, a loud rustling from the treeline caught his attention.

Italy stumbled from the forest, his clothing askew and his hair a mess, but his arms were full of fruit. He trudged up, looking irritated as he dropped the fruit on the ground. "You're welcome," he growled, plopping down on the ground with his arms crossed.

Germany stared at him for a moment before taking the fruit to check over. "Italy, what happened?"

"It turns out animals like fruit, too," Italy muttered bitterly. Germany couldn't help but shake his head in dismissal as he went back to building the fire ring before looking for more wood in the forest. The med-pack had come with a lighter, which would be useful. He looked at the fruit lying on the ground; some pineapple, mangos, bananas, coconuts, and kiwis. It wasn't much, but it would have to do for now.

* * *

Later in the evening, everything was silent save for the crackle of the fire and the gentle rush of the waves. Everyone was asleep but Germany. Italy had fallen asleep after dinner, and Japan had been resting his eyes for most of the day, recuperating from the injury, the med-pack being used as a pillow. Germany let him be; he needed the rest. Germany had spent most of the day drawing a huge 'S.O.S.' in the sand. Around here it wouldn't rain so the letters would be there for a long time. Hopefully, longer than they would be. Now it was late, and Germany was idly poking the fire to keep it going. He couldn't sleep right now. He just didn't feel safe here, even surrounded by allies.

"Germany?"

Germany looked up, seeing Japan watching him. "Oh, sorry," he said quietly. "Did I wake you?"

"No," Japan replied. "Why are you not sleeping? Sleep is important for soldiers."

But Germany only sighed. "I'm not much of a soldier," he admitted. "I can barely fly a plane let alone win a war. The fact that I captured France was a fluke. It was mostly Italy anyway."

Japan nodded, respecting his self-depreciation as humility. Silence stretched between them as they watched the fire flicker and dance. "Germany, what do you want to do after the war?"

Well, that was a rather random question. "Hmm, I hadn't thought of it," he said, stroking his chin in thought. "Well, my boss wants to expand through all of Europe, but I don't really feel the same way." He straightened up slightly, turning his body to better face the island Nation. "What about you?"

Japan hummed quietly, a contented smile upon his lips. "I have many things I want," he said. "I want to rule the oceans. I want all of Asia under my command. I want to crush my dishonorable Communist brother..." he spoke with such vigor in his tone, such fierce nationalism. But then it all just... melted away. "But most of all, I want my people to prevail," he said, staring up at the bright dots in the dark canvas above. "To give education to the children, and food to the poor. I want all to look at my beautiful land and know that all this bloodshed has brought some happiness."

Germany considered his words, his lips parted slightly. "That was beautiful, Japan," he said. "I guess, for me... I want all of my people to live unified together, for no one to live under oppression or fear."

"Well," Japan said, making Germany look back at him. "The first step to a united front is a name."

The blond's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"We need a team name."

"I'm not quite sure I follow."

Japan sighed quietly. "Well, you know how the Allies are the Allies?"

"Yeah?"

"Well," Japan gestured to the sleeping Italian next to the fire. "Italy and I were thinking, and we like the name 'Axis'."

Germany tilted his head. "'Axis'?" he repeated. "Where did you get that from?"

"Well, originally, it was Hungary's Boss who came up with it, I think. And Italy's Boss liked it, too."

"Yes, but what does it mean?"

Japan shifted slightly, tilting his upper body more towards Germany. "Well, by geographical location, you and Italy are at the center of Europe. Italy's Boss and your Boss thought of creating a joint Berlin-Rome line, right?"

It took Germany a moment, but he nodded. "Hmm, yes, I think I heard about that."

"Well, think of that line like an axis," he explained. "It means that when we prevail, the world will turn on that axis."

"Hmm... Axis..." Germany mused. "I like it. But what about you? You aren't central to Asia." Then again, the name must have been thought of before Japan was even an ally.

Japan waved off the question. "I do not need significance in the name. When I conquer Asia, everyone will know how strong I am regardless."

Germany nodded slightly. That made sense... in an odd, confusing way. "Then it's decided," he said, glancing up at the sky, the stars glinting brightly out here without all the light pollution. It was quite peaceful, despite the fact that they were stranded. But they all had goals that couldn't be furthered from their current position. Once they got off this island, they would continue on the plan to attack Britain. And no one would stand in their way.

Little did the newly-named Axis know, up on the cliffs above, a group of five watched them with eager intent. They just needed the right moment to _strike_.

* * *

 **I decided to leave out the Chibitalia short since it was kinda irrelevant. I also had a hell of a time thinking up how "axis" was came up with. I actually had to do research on where the real-life term came from, and all the articles seemed to write circles around the subject. But I still figured it out!**

 **How ironic, though. Germany wants his people united, and Japan wants his country beautiful. From the way the War ends, I can't help but be sad that I wrote this scene.**

 **Now for reference: The "Axis" of power was first proposed by Hungarian Prime Minister Gyula Gombos, who wanted to create an alliance between his nation, Italy and Germany in the 1930s. Gombos died a few weeks before the Berlin-Rome pact was made. And that's where "Axis" came from. Although, I suppose different sources might say different things.**


	6. Chapter 6: Campfire

**People really don't seem to understand the point of a "parody", do they? People have no patience, won't even let me get far enough to set up a plot separate from the original storyline. Instead, I am being heckled and bullied, threatened with hacking, lawsuits, and jail time. For one, I'm a minor. Two, if you want to get the court involved over something that is "non-profit", you're wasting everyone's time (especially when Hetalia is free to watch on multiple LEGAL servers online). And three, if you think me writing this is "illegal", then what is hacking? Even threats of hacking can be labeled as harassment. I had this big angry rant planned, but I decided, after I get the above out of my system, I'm gonna stop trying to fight fire with fire. We can fix this situation, but I can't do it if you don't cooperate.**

 **First of all, I will try to diverge more from the original storyline, but remember, this is not a "what if" story, it's a "parody" which means the events in the story will be based on the Hetalia canon storyline. I won't rewrite chapters I've already made, because it will cause major inconsistency. But, instead, we can build up from here. What I need you to do is, instead of criticizing every little mistake I make, calling me a thief, uncreative, and even trying to bring my PARENTS into the conversation, you open up your minds and try helping me make this story better? Like, try suggesting some things for the upcoming chapters. I repeat, this is still meant to parody the show, so any conflict in the storyline will still have the same resolution, but characters can feel differently about situations, certain things can change, etc. What I'm saying is, GIVE ME SUGGESTIONS instead of trying to bully me into changing a story I have, believe it or not, put much effort into. Stop it with the hate in the reviews, and maybe try to think more positively, okay? I even wrote an entirely original scene at the end of this chapter just for the heck of it.**

 **And, to answer a few more questions, I am not ignoring Romano, he just didn't have that big a plot in episode 1 (literally the only line that possibly referenced him was "and that other big brother who I don't know the name of because I haven't met him yet"). He'll have his chapter soon enough. Just be a little more patient, okay?**

 **Oh, and if you don't wanna read this much, well I don't really like reading your essay-length reviews either, so fair is fair.**

* * *

It never ceased to amaze Germany how Austria managed to take an instrument as elegant as the piano and use it to make such non-elegant music. What he played always sounded like it could be played on guitar and drums, but that wasn't to say it sounded bad on piano. It actually sounded great. Austria had called him over to listen to some of his music, and so far it sounded wonderful. Finally, the red-haired man took his fingers off the keys and turned to face him. "So, what do you think?"

"It sounded wonderful," Germany replied with a nod.

Austria chuckled arrogantly as he rolled his eyes. "Of course it was." He pushed in the piano bench and pulled down the covering over the keys, cracking his knuckles briefly to work the ache out of his fingertips. "So," he began. "I hear you've become allies with Italy," he said, as he stepped over to pour some tea he had been letting steep. "That's wonderful news!"

Germany sighed quietly, biting the inside of his cheek. "It's not like I really had a choice." Then he blinked, looking back up as Austria handed him a teacup. "Wait, why would that be wonderful news? I thought you hated Italy."

Austria shrugged slightly, sitting back down with his own cup. "I did at first, but he seemed to grow on me," he admitted.

That surprised Germany much. From the way Italy talked about Austria, it sounded like they hadn't had the best relationship. Well, no matter. He took a sip of the tea, which was clearly made with flowers and exotic herbs. Everyone knew Austria overspent often. "I'm personally not enjoying my experience with Italy," Germany admitted. "I mean, he's a total sociopath. How did you manage to raise him?"

But Austria just gave him a knowing look. "It takes a strong hand, but a gentle touch."

Germany scowled at his tea. "That has to be the most vague thing I've ever heard."

Austria shrugged. "Not my fault you don't understand my genius."

Germany sighed, taking another sip. Whatever was in the tea was making him a little bit drowsy. He stifled a yawn as his eyes drifted shut...

The next time they opened, Germany found himself looking at the campfire they had made on the island. Had that been a dream? No, probably a memory. Why had he thought about that? Hmm, probably because he was still trying to figure out how to work with Italy. Germany shook his head, shutting his eyes again. He was still tired.

Meanwhile, up above, five figures watched the three sleeping below. The first was a delinquent-looking teen with tan skin, auburn hair, and red eyes, sunglasses perched atop his head. The second was an impish man with pink hair, freckles, and bright blue eyes, who looked like he was on a constant sugar high. The third was a man with sullen purple eyes, and blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, a little bit of stubble growing on his chin. The fourth was an Asian man with long brown hair left loose under a military cap, muddy-brown eyes, and a black dragon tattoo snaking up his left bicep, which was shown off by his lack of sleeves. The last man was significantly taller than the others, with tousled black hair, sharp crimson eyes, and ghostly pale skin, all of which contrasted greatly with each other. He wore a black greatcoat with a blood-red scarf tied up around his neck, and some kind of honourary medal pinned over his heart.

The first man spoke. "They're asleep. We should attack now!"

The fourth man scowled sharply at the first. "You're far too impulsive, America. We should wait."

"I'm the leader!" America shouted back angrily.

"China has a point, America." The second man pointed out.

America simply crossed his arms with a childish scowl. "What do you know?"

The third man sighed. "What's the point? We'll never beat them anyway."

The second man pouted, gently placing a hand on the third man's shoulder. "Why so sad, France? There's only three of them and five of us."

But France suddenly lashed out, grabbing the second man by the front of his sweater-vest. "They've already captured half of my country, England!" He exclaimed. "How much more do I have to lose?"

England frowned, slowly prying France's hands away. "Calm down, France." He said, noting how cold his hands were. They would need to fix that. "Oh, I know what'll make you feel better. Why don't we go back to camp and have s'mores?"

"Aw," America whined. "But I wanna attack now!"

"We have chocolate."

America froze, then grit his teeth. "Chocolate. My only weakness."

"So, everyone agrees?" England said, his eyes sweeping over everyone, finally landing on the fifth man. "... Russia?"

The others turned to look at the Soviet who had been silent since the beginning. America leaned and whispered to England. "Does he even like s'mores?"

And after a long period of uncomfortable silence, Russia finally spoke. "S'mores sound nice."

England nodded. "Then, let's go!" he exclaimed, already leading the way. "I have a great recipe. It involves fireflies and it makes your tongue glow-"

"And this," America interrupted, "is why we don't let you cook."

* * *

 _ **Sometime during the Sixteenth Century**_

Italy sighed angrily as he wrung out the mop before continuing as he was. This had started as a simple chore, one room, maybe, but thanks to a stupid comment, now he was being forced to mop every room. It was quite a clever comment, though.

Austria had told him, "You will polish the floors in here until I can see my reflection in them."

To which Italy's response was: "Ugh, why would you want to see _that?_ "

Now, here he was, on his third room. He hated Mr. Austria, but he had to admit, it wasn't like this every day. Though Mr. Austria was usually really mean and arrogant, there were some days when he was nicer. Italy's secret theory was that he had a multiple personality disorder.

He was passing by a room, and from within he heard a very lively and rhythmic song on piano. Mr. Austria loved rock music, and he was quite good at playing it. Italy peeked in curiously and Austria looked up, noticing him. But strangely, he didn't yell at Italy to get back to work. Instead, he smiled. "Hey, Italy. Why don't you take a break and come listen to the piano?

Italy's brows furrowed. Was this the same Austria who had thrown him into a closet the other day? Yep, definitely bipolar. He shrugged and dropped the broom in the middle of the floor before joining Austria at the piano.

"Have you ever played the piano?" Austria inquired.

Italy shook his head. "Nope."

Austria gestured to the keyboard. "Well, why don't you give it a try?"

Italy looked at the keys, resting his babyish hands on them. They were so shiny, clearly cleaned and taken good care of. He tapped one key experimentally, tilting his head at the small _'plink'_. Italy's eyes narrowed at the keys. Suddenly, with a great crash, he climbed right onto the keyboard, trying to spread himself out as flat as he could. "I wanna hit them all at once!"

Austria just chuckled. "I think you'll need to be a little taller first."

* * *

In the dark, a single firefly fluttered around gracefully, its body glowing brightly against the surrounding blackness. It was so small, flying without a care in the world, like nothing could harm it... then suddenly, in an instant, the firefly was crushed between a cracker and a marshmallow. "And now," England said, placing the s'more between the pincers of a pair of tongs, "lightly toast it." A moment later, England shoved the whole s'more directly into the center of the flames. When he took it out, it was black and steaming. "And then, enjoy!" And without hesitation, England put the charcoal confection into his mouth as the Allies watched in horror. A moment later, England suddenly began choking, until China jumped to action and quickly performed the Heimlich maneuver. England spent a moment coughing out the remaining pieces before he opened his mouth wide and showed the others. "Did it make my tongue glow?"

The saddest part is... it did.

Russia looked to France, who was just eating the marshmallows raw. "You should be smiling," the tall man said, gesturing to the pastel pink man with the glowing tongue. "You just saw England almost choke to death."

France just sulked. "The key word is 'almost'." He muttered as he popped another marshmallow into his mouth.

America scowled, snatching the bag away from France. "Dude, you're supposed to toast the marshmallows! Not wolf 'em down."

"France is just a stress eater," England said. "Hey, I know what'll make you feel better. Does anyone know any good campfire songs?"

Russia looked around at the silent Nations. "I am very curious about the campfire songs in your countries."

"Sounds like a good idea. I'll go first." America said before anyone could respond. "It's called 'this land is your land'."

England leaned forward. "Who's it by?"

America shrugged. "I dunno, but it's fun to sing. Does anyone have a guitar?"

Silence, then China raised a weird-looking instrument. "It's called a pipa, but yeah."

America rolled his eyes. "Why am I not surprised?" He took the instrument from China, taking a moment to figure out how he wanted to hold it. It was a little different from a normal guitar, but how different could it really be? He found the first string, positioned his hands, and began to sing.

"This land is your land This land is my land

From California to the New York island;

From the redwood forest to the Gulf Stream waters

This land was made for you and me."

He finished the song, receiving a quick round of applause. America took a small bow. "Okay, who's next?"

England eagerly raised a hand. "Ooh, me!"

America passed over the pipa, and England immediately began plucking the strings. "This one's called 'a hunting we will go'." He said, not even hesitating before jumping into the song.

 _"A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go,_

 _Heigh ho, the dairy-o, a hunting we will go_

 _A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go_

 _We'll catch a fox and put him in a box_

 _And then we'll let him go."_

One more round of applause. England passed the instrument to the next person on his immediate left, China. The most skilled with the pipa didn't hesitate to begin singing before he had even announced the song. It was a mandarin tune called "Liǎng zhī lǎohǔ", a song about two little tigers with no ears or tails. By the time the song ended, everyone looked a little disturbed by the lyrics.

"No ears?" England repeated.

"No tail?" America added.

China scowled. "What? It's a nursery rhyme in my country!" he exclaimed, rolling his eyes. "Ugh, white people," he muttered as he passed the pipa to France.

France hesitated, going stiff. "I... don't really sing."

"That's a lie," China said. "I've heard you sing." The others murmured an agreement.

Realizing he wasn't fooling anyone, France sighed. "Well, I do know one. It's called 'Gentil Coquelicot'." The others nodded encouragingly, prompting France to nervously start the song. It sounded like a folk song, about picking flowers when a nightingale came down and told him in Latin men and boys are worth nothing, but said many nice things about girls. Overall, the song may not have made much sense, but it sounded nice.

France hurried to get the pipa away from him, his cheeks flushed at the applause he received after his performance.

Russia took the pipa when it was offered and gave it an experimental strum. "I only seem to know the romance songs."

"Really?" America asked in disbelief.

England elbowed him lightly. "Those sound nice, Russia." He said. "Let's hear one."

"Well," He said as he idly plucked the strings. "It's called 'shine, shine, my star'."

Everyone leaned forward, intrigued. Russia always acted far too serious for romance songs, so this was a thing they all wanted to see. A moment later, Russia began.

 _"Gori, gori, moya zvezda,_

 _Zvezda lyubvi, privetnaya!_

 _Ty u menya odna zavetnaya,_

 _Drugoy ne budet nikogda."_

Russia finished his song, reaching to hand the pipa back to China, but when he looked up, he found everyone staring at him, mesmerized. He tilted his head. "What? Is my singing that good?"

England was the first to snap out of it. "So, France, feeling better now?"

France nodded. "Yes, I guess so."

America raised an eyebrow. "Good enough to kick some Axis butt?"

"Let's save that until tomorrow," England advised. "It's getting late."

America rolled his eyes. "Ugh, lame."

And without further debate, everyone dispersed to their sleeping bags, each designed with a flag representing the Allied countries. England rested his head on the Union Jack pillow, snuggling down in the zipped up bag. "Night everyone." He said

"Night."

* * *

 **See? An entire chapter with only one quote from the show because that line was friggin hilarious. But I bet someone's gonna nag me because "Germany and Austria were in the same room and a piano was played" even though Austria was CONGRATULATING Germany on his alliance with Italy. Oh, and the second scene where Italy and Austria sit together at the piano, even though Italy actually plays the piano instead of just sitting and listening. Oh, and let's not forget, "using song lyrics that don't belong to you" even though I've credited the artists down below. Just because there are similar settings doesn't mean the scene is identical. Just because similar topics come up doesn't mean I copy the scene entirely. I think some people need to rewatch the anime. Anyway...**

 **I think I only made this as an excuse to research different campfire songs around the world (which is probably true since it has no purpose in the story at all and I had no clue how to end it, but screw it, it's original). Anyway, a pipa is a traditional Chinese instrument with four strings and is kinda shaped like a pear. "This land is your land" is by Woody Guthrie. They taught us it back in school, but with modified Canadian lyrics. "A Hunting We will go" is by Thomas Arne. It's a British folksong. "Liǎng zhī lǎohǔ" is a Mandarin nursery rhyme that adopts the tune of "Frere Jacque". It originated in Taiwan. "Gentil Coquelicot" is a French folk song. "Shine, Shine, My Star" has to be my favorite out of all of them. It's so beautiful, the lyrics. I tried to avoid putting lyrics in other languages, but I couldn't help it. I only put the first verse, but here are the English lyrics.**

 **Shine, shine, my star,**

 **Shine, affable star!**

 **You are my only cherished one,**

 **Another there will never be.**

 **Also, it's my headcanon that Russia has an amazing singing voice.**


	7. Chapter 7: Attack of the Allies

**Realizing the Allies won't attack until, like, episode 18, I decided to move up the attack. I also really hated all that "constantly getting interrupted" stuff, so that does not happen here. Maybe you'll like how this chapter ends, maybe not. I don't really care that much anymore, but be prepared for Romano.**

 **Now for reviews**

 **Personification of Dawn Island: Thanks for your review. Nice to get a little support. Don't worry, some characters may be more aggressive, but others are really soft. Of coruse, the soft ones may be more rare. And yeah, I wouldn't miss doing the Boss Spain and Chibiromano skits. They sound very interesting to figure out with 2ps.**

 **And for the other guest, you clearly didn't listen when I said "Hetalia can be watched for free online". I've read FF's whole spiel about the "bookstore" analogy. The thing is, if the bookstore gives the books away for free, is it really that different from a library? And unless you're gonna provide some suggestions, don't bother reviewing. I asked for some optimistic steps forward, not some pessimistic steps back.**

 **I find it funny how people think just copy and pasting the same reviews saying the same damn things will actually be beneficial to anyone. And the funny part is, they don't even have the guts to review under an actual screen name. Haven't even considered my offer: stop heckling me over past chapters and instead help me make future chapters better. This one is by far my favorite.**

* * *

 _ **Sometime during WWII**_

It was evening, with the sun just dipping below the horizon. The entire beach was dark, but the last bits of light lingered upon the top of the cliff, though even they would shortly disappear. Down below, the Axis sat around the fire, Italy sharpening his knives, Germany using the tray from the survival pack to cook a fish over the flames, and Japan was working to crack open a coconut. They'd been there for maybe three days, and no one had come to rescue them yet. Japan's ankle had been healing alright, and he could stand, but he had to use a stick to help him walk. Italy had begun teasing him about it, calling him an old man, until one of Italy's own knives nearly ended up in the Italian's skull. Clearly, the Asian man still had some fight left in him.

"Germany, I'm hungry," Italy whined.

"I can only cook so fast, Italy," Germany replied as he removed the tray from the flames and used the tip of the knife to turn the strips of fish over before holding it above the fire again.

Italy rolled his eyes and went back to sharpening. Japan finally cracked open the coconut and handed half to Italy. "Drink it," he ordered. "It will keep your strength up."

Italy didn't have to be told twice. Japan offered the other half to Germany, but he shook his head. "I'll wait for the next one."

Italy finished the milk, wiping a sleeve across his mouth. It was just when he set down the shell that he froze. Rustling up above. Voices. "Germany, Japan, listen."

The others paused what they were doing and tilted an ear up. Germany's brows knit. "Is that..."

"I hear it too," Japan said.

Italy followed the source of the noise, his eyes going up to the cliff. He didn't see anything at first, but then something glinted in the dying sunlight. Italy gasped. "Move!"

The Axis members moved out of the way just as three consecutive bullets flew past, clearly aimed for each individual. Germany pulled out his pistol, holding it at the ready. "It's the Allies," he said. Italy scowled, pulling out a set of throwing knives from inside his jacket and Japan went to stand, going to grab his katana but stopped with a hiss. His eyes widened in realization.

"I cannot stand," Japan whispered.

"Seriously?!" Italy shouted.

Then, up above, five people stepped out of the trees. At the lead was America with a triumphant smile on his face. "Well, look what washed up?" he laughed. "Strange place for a camping trip."

Germany growled. "Come down here and fight, you cowards!" he shouted, raising his pistol and firing a shot, but America simply stepped to the side and the bullet went flying past his head.

"Maybe we should teach them a little bit of respect," China suggested, already drawing a bō staff.

"Sounds good to me," Russia replied, already holding a rifle.

And as one, the Allies jumped down to the sand, and the battle began. China immediately took Germany as his main target, swinging his staff, the blonde German barely dodging. England joined him, a large serrated blade as his weapon of choice. France and Russia took Italy, France clashing a bayonet with Italy's knives, and Russia swinging his rifle at Italy's head. Italy ducked the gun, swiftly kicking out France's leg before he rolled through Russia's legs and grabbed the red scarf, pulling the taller man off balance. Italy smirked, clearly at the advantage, but suddenly, a foot hooked behind his own and knocked his feet from beneath him. A moment later, Italy felt someone pick him up by the back of his uniform, and he found himself staring into the bloodthirsty red eyes of the Russian.

"Never," Russia hissed through bared teeth, "touch my scarf." And with that, he tossed Italy across the beach.

Germany stumbled back as China's bō knocked his chin up. It was hard to keep up with both adversaries at once. He could barely keep up with China alone He's already taken a major blow to his left knee, and he'd almost been stabbed twice. He didn't know how much more he could take. Well, hopefully, Italy was faring better, and Japan-

 _Click._ The sound rang across the beach like a gunshot. Germany dared turn his head. On the side of the battle, Japan sat on the ground, clutching his ankle, his katana lying a meter away, and up above, America stood with a sleek pistol aimed directly at Japan's head.

"Drop everything or the sun sets on the Sunrise Kingdom." The American's wordplay was clever, but his tone was deadly serious. With great reluctance, the Axis dropped their weapons Germany didn't even get the chance to look Japan in the eyes before a sharp whack from the bō sent him into unconsciousness.

* * *

Germany opened his eyes blearily, the room around him coming into focus slowly but surely. He took a deep breath, pushing himself up into a sitting position. He was in a small grey room, the only light coming from two barred windows above. Across the room, Italy paced back and forth, the click of boots following his movements, and on the floor, Japan sat with his knees up to his chest, looking almost lost. Italy huffed, sitting down. "Great," he muttered. " _Just_ great. Captured by the Allies."

"How long have I been out?" Germany asked.

Italy shrugged. "Beats me. They knocked me out too, but I've been up for about an hour."

Germany looked at Japan, noting the hollow look in his eyes, which disturbed him a bit. "What about Japan?" he asked. "Is he okay?" He hesitantly waved a hand in front of the island Nation's face.

Italy just scowled. "He's been like that since I woke up. Won't talk, won't move. Completely out of it, or, at least, I think he is."

Germany frowned, reaching out a hand to get the Asian man's attention. As soon as he touched Japan's shoulder, a shudder passed through the shorter man's body, making Germany pull his hand back.

"I failed," Japan whispered, sounding pained at just admitting something like that. "It's my fault."

Germany was shaken by how empty Japan's voice sounded. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a sound, the Asian man unfolded, rolling up the leg of his uniform, but when he watched his actions, it looked like he didn't even see what he was looking at. "I am unworthy. A failure to my people." His voice shook as he reached into his boot, suddenly withdrawing a hidden blade. "I am a disgrace to the Kamikaze..." With shaking hands he began lifting his shirt, holding the blade ready to stab himself in the stomach. Tears built in his eyes. "This is the only way I can atone."

But before he could commit suicide, the door suddenly burst open. Germany was immediately on guard, in case it was an Ally, but on the other side of the door stood a man with blonde hair, a white suit, and an Italian hair curl.

"Heard you could use some help."

* * *

 **2p China's wiki page said he's seen using butcher knives, swords, guns, poisons, and assassin weapons, but I saw a picture of 2p China with a bo staff, and I was like "that looks awesome".**

 **I suck at action scenes. I'm even worse at fighting scenes, but I feel I did... eh... moderately okay with this one. And wow, Japan tried to commit suicide. Well, I suppose that makes sense. I've seen videos of Japanese POWs. In one I saw one man speaking to an American who was probably an interrogator but decided not to interview the Jap because he seemed too emotionally unstable. The interviewer asked if there was anything he could get the Japanese soldier to make him feel better... the soldier asked to be shot or for a knife to stab himself with. That's friggin' messed up!**

 **Aaaaaand Romano's here. Yay.**

 **If anyone wants to review, please make sure the content of your review is about THIS chapter, because I would like some opinions.**


	8. Chapter 8: Romano

**The first review made me giggle. Coincidentally, that's the name of the reviewer.**

 **Giggle123: Haha, thanks, I really appreciate it, but I already know why the Japanese committed suicide if captured. I just think it's kinda sad they did (and you almost spelled it right. It's 'Seppuku', but close enough :)) I think the Bushido thing is definitely part of it. Two more things might be how "honoured" it was, like, I heard about a squad in WWII that went to attack an American group (probably in Hong Kong or Taiwan or something. Maybe China). Four were killed, the commander was captured. Back in Japan, the dead were revered as heroes, and the commander... was completely forgotten. Another part was they were told if they were captured they would certainly be tortured and killed. I'm sure that could convince some people to kill themselves. Anyway, you have no clue how good a simple "good job" makes me feel. Thank you!**

 **And for the guest, I suppose you didn't listen: suggest or don't review. That's the bottom line here. The whole point of mentioning the "bookstore" thing is to point out: Hetalia is no longer a profiting series. I had more to this paragraph, but I'm gonna cut to the chase: your single-minded "Hetalia zealot" reviews are not welcome here. I've already suggested a peaceful resolution, and if you're so stubborn, I don't think _I'm_ the childish one here. Now, why don't you run along and get back to your life? My school's having exams soon, and unless you're an adult harassing a MINOR, you should be studying like me. Ergo: hasta la pasta.**

 **Wow, only one bad review. Hmm, the Hetazealots must not have had anything mean to say, so they decided not to say anything.**

* * *

The man in the doorway was quote similar to Italy in appearance, but... not at the same time. His hair was cut in similar fashion, but it was bleach blonde. His hair curl jutted out from the side opposite to Italy's, and the biggest difference: he wore a bright smile on his face.

 _A little oddly-dressed for a war-zone,_ Germany thought to himself as his eyes took in the pristine white suit that had somehow managed to stay unstained from whatever had happened outside, a pale pink scarf thrown over his shoulders, and a pair of designer sunglasses with frames of fuchsia.

The strange man looked over the people in the room, but his eyes froze on Italy, who looked wary for some reason. The man suddenly ran forward, but he didn't attack Italy. Instead, he threw his arms around the irritable Italian, crushing him in a tight embrace.

"Italia Veneziano, you are _always_ getting into trouble!" he exclaimed.

In response, Italy just scowled uncomfortably, pushing the other man away. "Okay, enough with the hugging."

Germany watched this all unfold with confusion. Everything was moving so quickly, he just needed it all to take a step back. "Hold on," Germany said. "Who is this?"

Italy just rolled his eyes, standing stiffly with the other man's arm around his shoulders. "This is my brother."

The man released Italy, taking a quick bow. "Italy Romano," he said, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead. "At your service."

Japan looked back and forth between the two Italians, clearly struggling to make sense of the situation. "Am I seeing double," he questioned, "or did you just say you were both Italy?"

"Well," Italy said. "Technically we both are."

Italy Romano nodded, motioning to Italy, then himself. "He's the North, and I'm the South." He explained. "We were always governed separately when we were little."

Italy scowled to himself, muttering quietly. "Why couldn't it have stayed that way?" Italy Romano glanced at him, which prompted Italy to clear his throat and change the subject. "How did you even find us?"

Romano's eyes widened. "Oh, right," he nodded. "It was the strangest thing. I think I saw Grandpa Rome."

Italy just rolled his eyes. "Oh, great. He's delusional."

"Um, I hate to interrupt," Germany said, turning to the blonde brother, "but you came to get us out of here, right... um... Romano?"

Romano beamed brightly. "Yep! Follow me."

* * *

America turned sharply away from the doorway of the empty cell with an infuriated look on his face. "How the hell could they escape?!" he growled. "Did someone let them out? I'll kill 'em!"

"America, don't jump to conclusions," England advised calmly. "I doubt it was a traitor."

China knelt down before a soldier who he'd pronounced dead a few minutes ago, carefully pulling aside the collar of his uniform. His neck was encircled by dark, bloody red bruises about two centimeters thick. "They were strangled," he observed, "but not by hand. The marks are far too small.

"By rope, then?" Russia asked from his spot standing guard.

China shook his head. "No, rope leaves very distinct marks. These marks are simply flat." China narrowed his eyes. "I think it was a measuring tape."

Everybody looked confused, but England showed recognition immediately, and then disdain. "It must've been that Southern Italy brat."

China looked up at him. "How do you figure that?"

"Well, for one, he was using a measuring tape," England said, gesturing to the soldier's neck. "And secondly, there's glitter all over the floor and it reeks of cologne in here."

"Well, great," America snapped sarcastically. "We know who it is, but that doesn't change the fact that _our prisoners are missing!_ " America quickly kneeled down and grabbed one of the dead soldiers by the jacket, pulling it closer to get a look at its face. "The guards are French," America growled, his gaze instantly snapping to the Frenchman standing in the corner. "Your incompetent men let them get away!"

France looked offended. "You requested my men to be the guards! You cannot blame me!"

"Hell yes, I can blame you!" America shouted, drawing to his full height, where he towered over the Frenchman. America grabbed his baseball bat, one with nails driven into it all over, stained with blood America had never bothered to clean off. Knowing what was coming, France threw his hands in front of his face to protect himself. But when America tried to move and strike the defenseless man, he found he didn't move. America looked down, realizing he was hanging at least a foot off the ground by his bomber jacket, which was in the hand of a very tall Russian.

America growled, jerking to loosen the hand that held him. "Let me go, you commie bastard!"

"Killing allies does not solve problems," Russia said seriously.

America just rolled his eyes. "C'mon," he said, gesturing to France. "He won't _stay_ dead."

Russia's impassive expression didn't falter. A moment later, he put America down, but pushed him away from France. "He's still immature." He muttered.

"Am not!" America protested as England patted his shoulder calmingly.

"If you two are finished," China interrupted abruptly, "we need to prepare for an imminent attack." He scowled at the thought of Germany, Italy, and worst of all, Japan, getting the jump on them while they were unprepared. "If I know my brother, he won't take defeat lightly."

* * *

 _ **Sometime during the Sixteenth Century**_

Holy Rome released a sigh. He removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair as he entered his house. It had been far too long since he'd been back home. Months? Maybe just weeks. War quickly made one lose track of time. If he could say anything about the battle he'd just fought... well... that had been quite the... surrender. Yes, he, the great Holy Roman Empire, had lost another effort for expansion. Yet one more piece of the house gone. Austria would not be happy.

He replaced his hat as he walked out of the Grand Atrium into the main hallway. He walked past an archway to his left, but paused at the wonderful smell that came from within. It smelled like Ms. Hungary's pastries. He would love one of those right now. He backed up and peeked into the kitchen discreetly. He was right; Ms. Hungary was there at the stove, waving the steam away from what looked like a torte. But she wasn't alone. Next to her, helping clean the utensils and measuring devices used to bake it was...

Holy Rome felt his breath catch in his throat. "I...Italia...?"

It had been barely a whisper, but at the briefest flicker in Italy's gaze, Holy Rome bolted, no hesitation, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the kitchen. His heart was racing. Why was he here? When had he arrived? How long had that _maniac_ been living in his _house?!_ He saw Austria down the hall, walking with a book in hand. Holy Rome dashed in front of the aristocrat, a frantic look on his face.

"Italy is in my house!" He shouted, his voice wavering. "Why is Italy in my house?!"

Austria simply contemplated him silently. "I conquered his land," he said plainly. "He's my servant now."

Holy Rome felt his throat close up. He put a hand to his head, wanting to pull out his own hair. "Why him?! There were plenty other places, why Italy?!"

Suddenly, Austria's book snapped shut and Holy Rome felt two strong hands on his shaking shoulders. "Control yourself," Austria commanded with such authority one could not refuse. "You are the Holy Roman Empire. Act like it."

Holy Rome tried to calm his breathing. Austria was right. Why was he panicking so much? It was just Italy... just...

"Hey, Holy Rome!" The blonde stiffened, a voice from down the hall making him look past Austria, and when he did, he almost jumped right out of his cloak. Italy was running towards them with a smile on his face. "You're finally home!"

Holy Rome let out a squeak, tearing from Austria's hold and fleeing as Italy ran after him.

After much running, finally, Holy Rome huddled on the floor under his bed, a pink pillow clutched to his chest as his eyes searched out from underneath the frame. In the distance, he could hear footsteps and a voice calling out to him. "Holy Rome, where are you?" Holy Rome shook, burying his face in the pillow. His chest was tight, his blood was cold. He could barely breathe. His house, his home, his _haven_... had just become his own personal hell.

* * *

 **Oh my gosh, I've been planning the next few chapters, and I have the best ideas for the events of episode eleven. This conclusion to the Chibitalia series is going to be darker than you think.**

 **Also, yeah, I made Romano's weapon a measuring tape, because he's a designer. I figure it would be kinda magic and he uses it as a whip or, in this case, to strangle people. As you can see, it's quite effective.**

 **I imagine 2p Southern Italy as kinda magic, like Mabel from Gravity Falls, able to summon glitter at will.**

 **I looked up Austro-Hungarian pastries and I found something called the "Hazelnut cream torte". It looked delicious, and I'm pretty sure the ruler of Austro-Hungary would have the resources to have food like that, so I put it in. Also, a torte is a sweet cake or a tart. I can imagine Italy and Ms. Hungary baking together.**

 **Anyway, hope I did Romano justice.**


	9. Author's note

**Alright, so this isn't a chapter, and I know author's notes aren't allowed to be** **chapters** **but don't worry: once the next chapter's finished, I'll delete this note. I just wanted to let everyone know I'm going to be taking a break from this story for a little bit to work on another** **Hetalia** **story. It's about an alternate take on the War of Austrian** **Succession** **. My Opa is Austrian (which makes me 1/4 Austrian) so I feel a special connection with the country. I'm still trying to figure out a** **title** **since "Succession" sounds too dull. Well, I'll figure that out eventually.**

 **The point of this note was to explain my absence and advertise my next story. First, if anyone has a suggestion for a better title, I'd greatly appreciate it, and if** **there** **are** **any offers, I really wanna get this story Betaed, since I've never done that before. It will include Prussia-Maria Theresa interaction, and some hinted AustriaxMaria** **Theres** **a** **since there** **aren't** **enough fics about that out there. I've got the plotline nearly finished, and I'm so excited to start writing. Thank you all for your patience. I hope you'll check out the story when it comes out.**

 **UPDATE**

 **Alright, I got one response to this. First: I literally said above: I will delete it when the next chapter is up. I just don't want some people being like "where'd you go?", because that's happened on other stories, so just hold onto your pantyhose. But, I would like to thank you for the story title ideas. It's nice to get at least one person who's willing to help, not just harp. They sound good, I'll keep them in mind.**


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